(A single spotlight hits an avatar, RONNIE HAYS, mid-60s, holding a worn acoustic guitar. He doesn’t play it. He just holds it like a shield or a piece of driftwood. He stares out, not at the audience, but through them.)
My pinkie toes. That’s what i remember about New Mexico. Not the Flagstaff sky, which was a shade of blue so deep i could’ve drifted upward into it forever. Not the train… a glorious old steam-belching dragon chuffing its way toward the biggest ditch on planet Earth. Nope… i remember my pinkie toes, both of them, singing soprano arias of pure, unadulterated pain inside a pair of waffle stompers that were just a whisper too narrow in the front. A purchasing error. A metaphor. I was trying to rise above the heat and the soul-choking smog of Albuquerque, to summit the Embudito Canyon Loop, but i was grounded by a millimeter of poor planning. C’est la. I turned back halfway up, defeated by footwear, then pointed Rocinante toward Georgia O’Keeffe’s ghost in Taos.
And like all of those “best laid plans”… a perfect day, ruined, setting me off on another journey altogether. You get those, sometimes. A gift. A trick. I was at Lake Wilson, back in Kansas. A limestone bowl of water so almost clear, like a dusty mirror on a rocky prairie. Not a breath of wind. The kind of day that makes you think the whole grand, chaotic carnival might just work out. And then the phone rang… a branch of the family tree just… fell to the grass… just like that… gone. The universe had provided a perfect day, and then, the bill. The HSoB tour was born right there, in the silence between the ringing and the news… an extended Bardo in motion.
Lake WilsonDusty MirrorRocky Prairie
And then, as if waking to a disjointed lucid dream, Cannery Row. Walking through the ghosts of Steinbeck’s worlds, smelling the salt and the history… beautiful. Then from the hand-held dream portal, i saw some new AI-generated video… something someone made with a sentence prompt. And soulless cartoon pop-stars with autotune larynxes, hitting all the right pitches on demand. Was this a dream, or were we building a world without flaws, without the shaky notes, without the happy accidents? A world of deus ex machina? A perfect, yet unrealized machine partnership? A place where my screaming pinkie toes would seem out of place.
What can we do? Here in the real(?) world… after the 2024 election, when the tectonic plates groaned and shifted rightward… a slow-motion drift that picked up steam with Bubba’s saxophone… and then poor Uncle Joe took to the debate stage like he was trying to remember where he’d left his tennis ball tipped walker… what do we do? I decided. I would be an anonymous troubadour… like Kwai-Chang Kane with a song list instead of Kung Fu. At worst, i’d languish in utter obscurity, singing to light posts and fire hydrants. At best, i’d become a gadfly on the rear end of a naked emperor’s pony. A tiny, buzzing annoyance for the forces of indecency.
Then came winter. The bomb cyclones and blizzards hammering the interior, but where was the Anonymous Troubadour? South Florida. All of January, February, half of March. I became a connoisseur of the Everglades, that “River of Grass.” Alligators sunning themselves like lazy, armored gods. The quiet hum of a billion insects. It was a primordial peace. Meanwhile, the forces of chaos were perfecting the art of “flooding the media zone.” A new outrage every hour, a new tweet to send half the country into a fit of cheering and the other half into a spiral of despair. The gasping death of democracy, playing out on a 6-inch screen with real life, ancient and unbothered, oozing by in a Florida swamp.
EvergladesSleepy GatorRiver of Grass
Then, Springtime in Foley, Alabama. A land of asphalt and every consumer convenience this roving malcontent could desire. Wide parking spaces. Good Wi-Fi. I almost stayed. But Mother Nature was cooking up her own brand of chaos. Springtime tornadoes, spinning up like God’s own potter’s wheel. I grew up believing this was a Kansas/Oklahoma thing. Now they were chasing me through the coastal South, as if to say, “You can’t escape the whirlwind, son. Not even here.”
On the way, i met a guy in a Louisiana dive bar who told me about Amos Moses, a local swamp-dweller who could allegedly dance with gators and heal the sick. A regular Cajun Jesus Christ. The New Apostolic Reformation had nothing on this guy. And while we were swapping local myths, the big, global myths were playing out in blood. The Holy Land, a place that’s anything but. Civilian casualties, famine, talk of ethnic cleansing and genocide. No easy answers, just the hard, cold reality of bellicose leaders discarding compassion like a soiled napkin. Even Israeli Jews were in the streets, screaming against their own government’s handling of the tragedy.
Amos MosesWhite Knuckle NightsLouisiana Bayou
We find our bliss where we can. A perfect song, a mineral bath. Oh, Sweet Golly Miss Molly, the mineral baths. Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Hot Springs, South Dakota. Sinking into that sulfur-scented heat, you understand that this isn’t indulgence; it’s healthcare. It’s sanity. Ancient Romans knew it. I was just catching up. And while i was soaking, trying to dissolve the knots in my soul, the ticker tape of modern U.S.A. life scrolled on. In the year of our lord, 2025, there would be over 300 mass shootings. Over 300 little holes punched in the fabric of the country, one for every day, it was getting harder to feel whole. A perfect day… then the bill. Maybe i should avoid consuming news for a while.
Turn the page, and the Appalachians… the rolling hills of the Virginias and Carolinas were beautiful and suffocating. But towns like Boone and Morgantown were so peak-and-holler infested, driving through them was like being on a roller coaster you can’t disembark. It gave me a strange kind of claustrophobia. And then perspective… the morning news from Ukraine. Atrocities that make the U.S.A.’s 300+ mass shootings look like kindergarten playground scuffles. It’s all a matter of scale.
Then Pennsylvania… Amish country. A different kind of rolling beauty, pastoral and profound. The horse-drawn buggies, the men’s beards, the ladies’ bonnets. It was like driving through a photograph from a hundred years ago. Strange and wonderful. And then, as if Stephen King had personally designed our itinerary, we landed in Horseheads, New York. A town named for the mountain of bleached horse skulls discovered by early settlers. They put the weird right there on the welcome mat. From Horseheads’ digital nomad-friendly library we planned several day trips. From the macabre to the hallowed… Woodstock and the Big Pink. We meandered through the forest and landed outside the house where The Band forged their sound. I just listened to the whispering pines. After that, to Hartford, to see Sam Clemens and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s next-door visitor’s centers, wrestling with the soul of America a century and a half ago. Some fights never end.
Sam ClemonsStowe Visiter CenterHorseheads Public Library, New York
Which leads us, of course, straight into the belly of the ailing beast: Washington D.C. The 250th birthday of the U.S. armed forces. The President wanted a parade, a big, gaudy show of military hardware down the Mall for his own birthday. In response, a “No Kings” protest was called. I went, expecting a worst case scenario, like Kent State, like Tiananmen Square. What did i find? Maybe a hundred people. Mostly old hippies, the very same tie-dyed specters Stephen Miller claims to be a clear and present danger to the republic. Lots of smoke. No fire. An insurrection of gray ponytails and Birkenstocks.
And the road goes on forever… stay tuned… much more to come.
(Ronnie Hays looks down at the guitar in his hands, as if noticing it for the first time. He strums a single, unresolved chord that hangs in the air, then begins to sing…)
I got a black bomb… It’s tickin’ away… I’m gonna take it out… On the Blue Highway.
LISTEN: This is NOT just another travelog boilerplate.
No… we’re not even sure how that would go. Instead, these are fragmented impressions… mental snapshots from a recently released inmate of the professional hamster-cage! From the baker’s-dozen months spent on the road, impressions came fast, and furious, and much of this account’s details, admittedly, come from an overamped imagination. You see, Ronnie is a student of American Gonzo Journalism. He’s a hopeless optimist, idealistic to a fault. And though this brand of idealism drew some of Ronnie’s gonzo heroes to terminal cynicism, Ronnie’s not ruined yet. He clings to a measure of confidence that the slow, steady bending of humanity’s arc advances toward justice.
What follows is a brief summary of this frantic, glorious gallop through the sun-blasted plains, the rain-slicked coasts, and the very twisted, tangled Fibrillating Heart of our Divided Nation!
PHASE I (the great Kanorado-Kush Kingdom):
Gotta start in the Heartland, where the sun beats down like a vengeful god and the sky stretches on forever, a big, blue bowl of possibilities. We’re talking KANSAS, baby! The land of Oz and Dorothy and a whole lot of self-reliance, wheat, cattle, and grit. Some call it “flyover country,” those Manhattan-bound jet-setters, but they don’t know jack! Kansas loopers? They’re a different breed! Tough as old boot leather, polite enough to make you blush, and loyal as soldiers on night-watch in the foxhole. They’ll loan you a chainsaw, they’ll hunt for your lost dog, they’ll even spot you a smoky coffin nail if you’re down on your luck! But don’t forget… they believe in karma, and it comes back faster than a tumbleweed in a tornado! That’s right, justice delivered by a man of steel. And the whole damn state’s fighting over who gets to claim him…
Smallville is EVERYtown, Kansas!
Then, BAM! You cross the line and you’re in MISSOURI, the Show-Me State! But what’s showing ain’t necessarily pristine, unvarnished truth, no sir! John Steinbeck said it best: Pure objective observation? About as likely as a snowball surviving a Missouri summer! In other words, we see the world through our own tinted, yin/yang, magic eight-ball lens, and the best one can do is try to be fair, like a tipsy judge on a bender! These Missourians? A hearty bunch! Friendly as hound dogs with a belly full of barbecue, but with a healthy dose of skepticism that’s as down-to-earth as a hand-me-down Chevy pickup. And the political tension? So thick you could cut it with a butter knife. These days it seems the two sides won’t even talk to each other!
Now… hold on to your wallets, loopers, because we’re heading west! COLORADO! Land of the “Green Solution” and everything else! A playground for upwardly mobile yuppies with killer jobs and a penchant for yoga pants! But that privilege? It’ll cost more than a designer purse! But Ronnie Hays, bless his hop-soaked heart, he was down for the real deal. Every fragrant autumn, he’d don that pretzel necklace, the size of a Texas T-bone, and descend into the sacred, noisy, frothing bacchanal of The Great American Beer Fest! A communion of hops and happiness! Rocky Mountain High… Colorado!
PHASE II (The Great Plains and Sasquatch):
First up, NEBRASKA! A land where the motto on the flag screams “Equality Before the Law!” with all the subtlety of a neon sign advertising a discount root canal! It’s a relic, a dusty-corner piece of history from the Civil War, when they removed those “whites only” voting restrictions and welcomed newly emancipated African Americans! These days, they’re too busy extolling the virtues of “The Good Life” to dwell on any radical, progressive past!
Next, through the vast, empty sky of the Great Plains we find… SOUTH DAKOTA! Where Rapid City rolls like San Francisco with a giant grain elevator added for Midwest ambiance! The drive from Chadron, Nebraska to Rapid City was a technicolor dreamscape. Yellow wood-sorrel rippled across the rolling plains like a giant, undulating welcome mat punctuated by a playful thunderstorm featuring glimpses of blueberry sky and cotton candy clouds leaking a steady stream of nature’s own mercies. Ronnie’s initial plan was to hit a car wash in Rapid City to scrub the bugs off Rocinante’s snout, but Mother Nature, in all her benevolence, had already taken care of that with her pre-dawn van wash special. And for those wondering if we were ever going to find the hot springs, BINGO! In fact, it’s in the town’s name, “Hot Springs” South Dakota. The kicker? Ronnie met a retired park ranger while soaking in the steaming mineral water. Through the fog, Mr. Scotty spun a bizzarro story. Go HERE for the details.
Oh boy… egg on our face. You see, Ronnie has always confused IOWA with Ohio, so when he arrived in Ohio and learned it was the REAL “Buckeye” state, he felt some nostalgic pains for the days when publishers could afford fact-checkers AND copy editors. Anyway, the egregious error was corrected, and apologies to all Cardinals AND Buckeyes. Oh… one more thing. We think it’s important to note, among the hubbub over AI wrecking creative and journalistic landscapes, the abovementioned error (confusing Ohio’s with Iowa’s state mascots) was all-too-human.
ILLINOIS, the “Land of Lincoln,” struck a dissonant chord. A state where prestigious universities rub shoulders with soul-crushing property taxes, where the “Second City’s” sports teams inspire religious devotion amidst a backdrop of political chicanery. The summers, Ronnie discovered, were steam baths, the winters, cryogenic chambers… a climate that could curdle a saint’s disposition. Yet, there are glimmers of hope. Starved Rock State Park, a Xanadu of waterfalls and canyons, promise respite from the urban sprawl. The state boasts a pantheon of American icons… Honest Abe Lincoln, of course, but also Carl Sandburg, the bard of Spoon River, and Michelle Obama, a beacon of intelligence and moxy. Even Michael Jordan, the basketball demigod (and Bugs Bunny’s unlikely sidekick), hails from these plains.
On to Duluth, MINNESOTA. A granite jaw jutting into the maw of Lake Superior. Time is a river here, meandering leisurely through a landscape of pine and granite. The locals, bless their frostbitten hearts, seem to operate on a different clock altogether, a sundial perhaps, or maybe an ancient Norse timepiece that only reads ‘winter’ and ‘summer’. Our encounter across this land of sky and water began with the stories from Ronnie’s first college mentor. A woman of the theater. She’d painted the Twin Cities as a glittering metropolis of culture, a place where the soul could stretch its legs and breathe. And The Guthrie, a temple to the spoken word. But then, a siren song lured us to the heart of Minnesota, towards the iron-rich womb of the state, Hibbing. A pilgrimage, you see, to the birthplace of a bard, where we cleaned the laundry and stood on the shoulders of giants.
Ok… for Ronnie, INDIANA is a couple things on the surface, 1.) it’s the home base of one of his favorite authors, Papa Kurt Vonnegut, and 2.) the Indy 500 auto race. Now, these things might date Mr. Ronnie. After all, he can’t remember the last time the Indy 500 was headline news. And though Mr. Vonnegut has been gone since 2007, his work is still quite popular with readers around the world. Indiana is a state of contradictions. Its people are both fiercely independent and deeply rooted in tradition. They’re known for hospitality, but their conversations tend to revolve around the weather, sports, and the price of corn. There is a certain charm to their simplicity, a refreshing honesty in their lack of pretense. Yet, there is also a stifling provincialism, a fear of the unknown that limits their horizons. Indiana is a place where time seems to stand still. The past is revered, the future feared. There is a resistance to change, a stubborn clinging to the familiar. It is a state that is both comforting and claustrophobic, a place where one can find solace and despair in equal measure.
Now… after Ronnie’s frustrating experience with Indiana, with all those Mario Andretti wannabes humping his bumper, he was pleased rolling through Northern OHIO‘s green expanse. Sure, Cleveland’s urban freeways are fast-paced, but we didn’t hold speed-demons from their ultra-important destinations like those in Indiana. Anyway, the drive from Medina to Kent was a pleasure, but this was a pilgrimage of sorts. Ronnie felt obligated to stand on the hallowed ground where four students gave their lives for the cause of ending the Vietnam war. This event held special significance for Ronnie as he was just beginning to get glimpses of the adult world. He was 10 years old in 1970, and the US appeared to be a super-hostile place for youth. Granted, things could have gone worse. For example, in China when students forced the government’s hand, hundreds were killed in Tiananmen Square. That said, the Nixon Administration, the Ohio National Guard, and the Kent State ROTC, stepped over the line asserting their authority. In the end, Mr. Nixon paid a political price and the US finally withdrew military forces from the Republic of Viet Nam, all of this before Ronnie’s actual entrance into the dangerous world witnessed every day on his family’s TV screen at the dinner hour.
Then, on to MICHIGAN, a state so vast it often feels like it’s trying to encompass an entire continent. It’s a place where the earth, it seems, took a deep breath and exhaled a colossal, verdant sigh. A land of extremes, where the summer sun can bake you like a potato and the winter wind can howl like a banshee. Michigan is a state that demands respect. That said, we found parts of Ohio and Michigan “frighteningly beautiful”. Frighteningly, because driving on some of what William Least Heat-Moon called “blue highways”, in the lake-dotted double-canopy forests, gave us a serious case of the creeps… we’re talking “Chrystal Lake” vibes, where Jason or Sasquatch pops out from the woods to do malevolent things to whomever is unlucky enough to be within a hairy decomposing hand reach. Yes… uber creepy, but straight up gorgeous at the same time.
On to WISCONSIN, the “Badger State”, and from what we’ve heard about the winters here, well, if Honey Badger don’t care, neither does winter in Wisconsin. We landed in Fond du Lac working on the blog in the public library. Earlier, Ronnie was practicing his Dylan tribute song in the Lakeside park, which happens to be at the shore of Lake Winnebago. Granted, not nearly as enormous as nearby Lake Michigan, but enormous nonetheless, 215 square miles, or 137,700 acres, and is the largest inland lake in the state. It’s about 30 miles long and 10 miles wide. So when the locals at the park informed Ronnie the entire thing freezes over in the winter… enough to drive vehicles on, well, that puts it in perspective… it gets really cold here, and stays that way for a long… long… time.
Then, into the frozen plains of NORTH DAKOTA! A land of brutal, relentless winters that’d make a penguin question life choices! It’s a Coen Brothers movie come to life, a place where excitement is as rare as a warm day in February. After the thaw, no way can you get driver’s fatigue, because it’s straight up pastoral… beautiful! The state motto, in classic radio voice, declares “Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!” But hold your horses, loopers, because North Dakota liberty isn’t exactly Park Avenue window shopping. It’s more like strapping yourself to a goddamn rocket and blasting off into the great, howling void. But… there’s a peace here, a vast emptiness that allows you to breathe, to hear yourself think. We know! We experienced it firsthand on that long, lonely, pastoral drive to Bismarck!
Onward through the fog…Rapid City, SDAre we there yet?
Phase III (West Coast Wanderings):
Now, pay attention, loopers, because this ain’t your typical road trip! This is a gonzo odyssey, a kaleidoscopic funhouse of experience! Out west we go, through the Oro y Plata land of MONTANA, where the ghosts of cowboys and prospectors still whisper in your ears, where Native American oral traditions echo through the canyons, and where real frontier stories echo in the wind!
And then WYOMING! A land of contradictions! The “Equal Rights” motto proudly proclaiming a progressive past while some grapple with its present-day relevance! Yellowstone leaves you speechless, while the wind in Riverton leaves you breathless… and possibly frostbitten! They cherish their independence and self-reliance, but there’s a growing discussion about higher education! It’s a land of Esther Hobart Morris and J.C. Penney!
And what’s this? IDAHO! A land in need of some highway trash collectors! But the real star of this show is the stretch between Cody, Wyoming, and Idaho Falls! Yellowstone National Park! A geological freak show that would make P.T. Barnum green with envy! Mountains that scrape the underbelly of heaven, meadows bursting with wildflowers, and enough bears to staff a Russian circus! The only downside? No goddamn AT&T mobile service… stranded in the technological dark ages!
Onto the celestial paradise of UTAH! A land sculpted by a colossal stonemason, with towering crimson cliffs spilling out like a kaleidoscope on fire! The “Mighty Five” National Parks are a crown jewel collection fit for a psychedelic king! And the locals? A hardy bunch, the kind who’d build a log cabin with their bare hands and a smile! Sure, there’s a whiff of social conservatism clinging to the air, but it ain’t the in-your-face Bible-thumping you get down south! Just a politely phrased pamphlet tucked under your windshield wiper!
Phase IV (The Pacific Coast and Grand Canyon):
Good news, everyone! WASHINGTON STATE, a Pacific Northwest gem, offers a diverse landscape that’s as colorful as a Pollak canvas and as darkly fun as a date with Beetlejuice. First, Washington State holds a special place in Ronnie’s heart as he spent many a week in Spokane and Seattle either learning about the institutional food service business (four lifetimes ago) or tending to the computer networking needs of a western-region architecture/engineering firm, as well as a brief, but super-eventful romance with a Spokane co-worker (two lifetimes ago). And now… these reveries come crashing down on laundry day in Spokane. “Laundryland,” a facility filled with hungry hungry modern appliances. We ended up settling for the old-school machines because the new ones wanted SEVEN FREAKING DOLLARS for a single load. Now… we’ve grown accustomed to the already too high prices in Kansas, but a standard load to wash/dry was no more than five or six bucks, total. Now… these guys want even MORE just to do a single wash load (without bedding)… ARGH! Ok… rant over…
Heading down the coast, through the land of contradictions and extremes! OREGON! A place where the mountains are so tall they kiss the sky and the forests are so thick you could get lost for a lifetime! The sun shines one minute and then a torrent of rain, and you swear you see a Sasquatch lurking in the shadows! It’s a scene straight out of a nightmare, a testament to the raw, untamed beauty of this place!
And then CALIFORNIA! The land of pop culture and dreams!NorCal, where Eureka is a beach town crawling with former pirates. And Redding… like Garden City, Kansas, with palm trees! And then Steinbeck Country… Salinas! A weekend visit to the Northridge Mall where thousands of people, a rainbow of DEI, all having a grand time shatter the abandoned shopping center stereotype! An oddly refreshing experience for Ronnie, an average white male, being on the other side of the majority! Then down to SoCal, a place overrun with future Texans and Coloradans fleeing the high cost of living, the constant threat of earthquakes and wildfires, and the mind-numbingly long commutes! But let’s not forget the good stuff! Yosemite National Park, the birthplace of the film industry, and Silicon Valley! And Bakersfield! The home of country music legends Buck Owens and Merle Haggard!
And then, NEVADA! The Emerald City of the Desert! Las Vegas! Ronnie’s got a personal history with this place, a mountain of convention lanyards and memories of being propositioned by “escort” solicitors flicking cards in his face! It’s a land morphed from “Sin City” in the 1970s to a post-Y-2-K “Disneyland for Adults”!
And ARIZONA, a land where the sun beats down like a vengeful deity and the cacti stand guard like prickly sentinels. It’s a place where the Grand Canyon yawns like a cosmic chasm, a testament to the Earth’s ancient whimsy. But the beauty and awe-inspiring grandeur is only one side of the coin. This state is a microcosm of human endeavor, a place of both wonder and woe. Imagine Flagstaff, a city where the air is so crisp it could shatter glass. Then picture Phoenix, a sprawling metropolis where the heat shimmers like a mirage. It’s like comparing a snow-capped mountain to a fiery furnace. Arizona is a land of extremes, a place where the delicate balance of nature is constantly being tested.
A hiker’s lesson learned in NEW MEXICO: The waffle stompers Ronnie was counting on for long hikes in semi-challenging environments turned out to be unambiguous “cruel shoes”. This reality first emerged on the Grand Canyon “Bright Angel” hike, but became belligerently true, like the Kool Aid man, on the intermediate Albuquerque trail (Embudito). Did he make it to the summit? Hell to the no. Did he give it the ol’ college try? Sure, and this is where Ronnie FIRED the boots. His pinky toes, both of them were screaming the entire six mile trip (roughly half way to the summit). But no shame… it was a semi-challenging hike, and toward the end, his knees (those whiny little bitches) were singing harmony with the pinky toes. Ronnie resolved to engage the shoe experts at REI to hook him up with trail hikers a little less inclined to torturing the wearer. Oh… and a trek pole to make sure he doesn’t have to whittle a perfect stick a’la natural for knee-punishing descents.
Ronnie’s trusty mount.Looks yummy?Grand Canyon Old School
Phase V (Southern Comfort):
Alright, let’s dive into the heart of TEXAS, a place where the sun beats down like a jackhammer on your skull and the wind howls like a pack of Wiley Coyotes across the endless plains. As a lifelong Denver Donkeys fan, Ronnie has a personal vendetta against this state, courtesy of that Super Bowl debacle in ’78. But hey, even a man with a grudge can appreciate the bigger-than-life beauty of Texas. Picture this: a landscape painted in shades of burnt orange and turquoise, where weeds tumble and armadillos scurry. It’s a place where the only thing bigger than the sky is a ten-gallon-hat-wearin’ Texas oil-baron’s ego. And don’t even get Rocinante started on the heat. It’s like being trapped inside a giant oven, with more sage and fewer cookies.
OKLAHOMA, the Sooner State, Woody Guthrie’s stomping grounds, is a land where the contrasts are as stark as a prairie sunset against a storm-laden sky. It’s a place where the Wild West still whispers in the wind, where oil gushes beneath the earth, and where a Dust Bowl ghost haunts the plains. Imagine a state that birthed the Black Wall Street, a testament to post-slavery prosperity, only to see it crushed by a racist mob. Yet, today, it’s a tapestry woven with threads of Native American heritage, African American resilience, and the hopeful dreams of countless immigrants. Yet, from this crucible of contrasts, Oklahoma has forged a unique identity. It’s a land of country music legends, basketball heroes, and political figures who shaped the nation. It’s a place where the past and present collide, where hope and despair intertwine, and where the human spirit endures.
Onto ARKANSAS, home to several natural hot springs, many of which are open to the public. The most famous is Hot Springs National Park, which features 47 naturally occurring springs. Other notables include those found in the Ouachita Mountains and the Ozarks. Arkansas has a rich cultural history as well, with several famous landmarks. These include the boyhood home of Johnny Cash in Kingsland, the birthplace of Al Green in Forest City, and Billy Bob Thornton, born right there in Hot Springs. Ronnie has family from the state and they are doing quite well. They’re a hearty breed, known for their hospitality and their dry wit. They’ll welcome you with open arms, but don’t be surprised if they also give you a sideways glance and a knowing smirk. It’s a state where folksy wisdom and modern cynicism coexist.
Next up, GEORGIA… the home of former president Jimmie Carter. Do you remember Mr. Carter’s family business? That’s right, he was a peanut farmer. Peanuts are everywhere here in Georgia. For Thanksgiving, Ronnie and Rocinante were holed up in some backwoods Georgia manor, a relic of the Old South, courtesy of Ronnie’s kin who threw a Thanksgiving feast that would make a Roman emperor blush. The pièce de résistance? Peanut butter pie! Yeah, you heard right. A sweet and savory peanut butter pie. Only in the Peach State, where they grow enough peanuts to choke an elephant, and the peanut butter pie was a stone cold home run. If Ronnie ever hosts Thanksgiving dinner, there will be a peanut butter pie.
After a brief holiday stop in Savannah, Ronnie and Rocinante made a plan to escape the worst of 2024’s winter bomb-cyclones. So, Southward they traveled intending to follow the southern coastal towns. But then, waking from an overnight stay in Tallahassee enroute to Mobeele, AL, Ronnie opened his news feed to reports of Ol’ Man Winter reaching tentacles into his Midwest stomping grounds. This awakened a realization. Specifically, the point of this tour was to avoid any and all extreme weather, a priority for our van-life vagabond heroes.
Anyway, with time to step back and regroup. Hot Springs or Busk phases one, two, three, and four covered the West and the Midwest. Now, with winter bearing down, we found ourselves learning some Deep South lessons (HSoB Phase V), starting with Arkansas and Georgia. The lesson? It gets cold there too. Granted, we were confident about missing the snowfall, let alone all those bomb-cyclone blizzards, but, it wasn’t what we had imagined. Specifically, we expected nighttime temps between 40 and 60 with day temps between 50 and 70. Apparently we brought the 20s and 30s from Kansas along with us for the ride.
So there we were, a new “This Land” tour motto ringing in our ears: “Ever thus to the best laid plans,” like some cosmic Rodney Dangerfield whispering sweet nothings of misfortune. Or, as Iron Mike would say, “everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.”
Now, for geography-minded loopers, Tallahassee is in the panhandle, East of St. Augustine, our first FLORIDA stop. Well, that’s in the North, and we needed to be heading South, waaayyy south, in order to avoid all hints of Ol’ Man Winter. So… yea… we had to backtrack a bit, a significant course correction. Spring Hill was the first stop enroute to Key West, all the while hoping for the best for friends and family up North.
Nearly three months in the southern tip of FLORIDA before embarking for the coastal South gave us a deep reverence for Mother Nature’s “River of Grass“:
Remember remember, the lessons of the wild, the delicate balance that’s easily disturbed. Remember remember, our schoolyard sorrow, the shattered peace, the pain of tomorrow. Protect this wilderness, protect these children, till silence swallows both… in a rolling river of grass.
And so… onto ALABAMA: We landed in Foley, en-route to Mobile. Our “boondocker’s workflow requires landing somewhere close to an urban center large enough for Planet Fitness without traffic snarls, but small enough for us to function at a pace suitable for wayfaring senior citizens. Foley, AL is perfect! Less than 50 miles from Mobile with all necessary accommodations located along a single boulevard. Once settled, we met some nice folks at the library and the nearby dog park. And some of the stories… well… For instance, this one fella, an Uncle Remus sort of elderly gent, told us he’d seen a Sasquatch stomping around Conecuh County. “A hairy beast hollerin’ and crossin’ roads like he’s late for supper.” He said. “Back in my day, we had ‘possums, maybe a bear. Now folks are scared. It’s prob’ly lookin’ for a decent sweet potato pie. Ain’t that somethin’?”
Now, they say MISSISSIPPI is a great place to commune with ghosts, that Mississippians love a good story. And so, in honor of the great state of Mississippi, here’s a real doozy of a ghost story. Mostly inspired by a dream from our first restless night here. For some reason, Ronnie awoke around 4:00am, probably from a limb scraping against the side of the van nudged by a gentle breeze (or something like that). Anyway, fragments of the dream are drastically embellished here… Enjoy!
On the road in LOUISIANA, Ronnie and Rocinante pulled into a mud bug shack for a bite before settling in for the night. Striking up a conversation with the bartender, Ronnie asked about all those Apostolic churches he was passing on the Louisiana back roads. In the next hour and a half, Ronnie got way more than he bargained for. The bartender had a mellow drawl Ronnie found mesmerizing… a combination of Southern gentry and creole. His ample snow white beard reminded Ronnie of those Park Avenue Santas helping New York parents discover the hopes and dreams of their little ones. He had the dark skin and flashing blue eyes of an avid sun worshipper, projecting the relaxed countenance of a lifelong beachcomber. His loose fitting color patterned shirt reminded Ronnie of African Dashikis, but the style was more like something you would expect to see at a Grateful Dead concert. The bartender seemed intrigued about Ronnie’s curiosity, and so began to unspool a strange tale of spiritual divergence in the great state of Louisiana.
Now… there we were… Memphis, TENNESSEE… home of Graceland and, if we may be so bold, some of the worst highways and city roads poor Rocinante was forced to endure on this tour. We didn’t hit a tire killer, but that’s only because Ronnie practices hypervigilance when traveling Tennessee roads. In other words, he’d seen this show before… he came prepared. That said, we had a super pleasant stay in Memphis. Not all of the roads were peppered with tank-traps. For example, the eastside Germantown area is quite nice. It reminded Ronnie of some of those old money neighborhoods in Kansas City. Anyway, on laundry day, waiting for machines to do their business, Ronnie struck up a conversation with one of the patrons. We’ll refer to him as Ronnie’s “laundromat companion” (LC). After some brief introductory exchanges, Ronnie’s LC launched into a string of Music Biz-related anecdotes, slightly embellished here.
Phase VI (East Coast Shenanigans):
Now, after a springtime tour of the coastal south, we headed North, a furious, fevered dash to the final HSoB phase, East Coast and New England. Starting in the Carolinas, and the Virginias. Along the way, Ronnie confessed to feeling like an exposed nerve. It may have something to do with the change of scenery. After all, as a Kanorado native, Ronnie’s comfortable with wide open spaces and alpine mountaineering. But starting in North Carolina, approaching the beginning humps of the Appalachians, Ronnie started developing a contracting state of claustrophobia. This sense of dread actually started earlier, in South Carolina, with conjured imaginings of what it would be like to navigate congested urban sprawl nestled amongst relentless steep grades, up and down and up and down, trying not to ride the brakes but sometimes unable to avoid it. Then what do you know? The two West Virginia college towns Rocinante stumbled into (WVU and Fairmount State) presented conditions exactly like Ronnie’s worst roller-coaster imaginings.
Ok, let’s take a high-speed, neon-lit, pinball-machine journey through the CAROLINAS! It’s a two-state demolition derby of contrasts, a sociological smackdown, a… well, you get the picture. First, the cities! NORTH CAROLINA, with its Chapel Hill, that bastion of Ashville cool, where the air crackles with Ph.D. energy and the bookstores overflow with Derrida! SOUTH CAROLINA? They’ve got… GreenvUlle! And Columbia, where the statehouse gleams, the humidity clings, and the barbecue joints are serious business! The music scene? Oh, sweet home Carolina, the music! Up north, it’s flutes and dreads, the earthy strum of acoustic guitars, the faint, sweet smell of patchouli oil wafting through the co-op. Down south? It’s hiking gear and bandanas, the twang of banjos at a bluegrass festival, and enough Realtree camo to outfit a small militia! Religion? North Carolina, with its burgeoning tiny home communities, whispers of Zen, and a general suspicion of anything too… organized. South Carolina? Mega Churches! Sprawling complexes with parking lots the size of aircraft carriers, where the faithful gather in their Sunday best to hear the good word, amplified to stadium levels!
To be clear, Rocinante is no stranger to mountaineering. In fact, she was literally born in Colorado Springs, her first initiation over Independence Pass through the valley of the Roaring Fork northwest of Aspen, where Owl Farm, Hunter S. Thompson‘s redoubt sits. A gorgeous, exhilarating trip and Rocinante handled it without a hitch. Now, this is all familiar territory for Ronnie, a native of Kanorado. He’s seen it all, from Black Bear Road to the high plains of Western Kansas. That said, it’s hard for our heroes to stay focused traveling through VIRGINIA as the lush Edenic land goes on and on and on. Our heroes made a point to stay on what Heat Moon dubbed “Blue Highways” and by arrival in Waynesboro, Ronnie was overwhelmed with the beauty of Virginia’s interior. So much he began to doubt his ability to return to the flatlands. But we digress… the story of Virginia is one of stark contrasts, of light and shadow, of triumphs and tragedies, all woven together to create a snapshot as compelling and enduring as the land itself.
And neighboring WEST VIRGINIA… a veritable Janus of banjos and 5g smartphones. Even before the rabble in Philadelphia started their tiresome bleating about liberty and taxes, this land of craggy peaks and shadowed hollers harbored a glorious dichotomy. On the one hand, rugged frontiersmen, creatures of axe and rifle, suspicious of anyone wearing hats indoors and whose idea of polite conversation involves hitting the spittoon bullseye. Folks of fierce independence mind you, who’d sooner wrestle a bear than abide a revenue agent or a banker.
Alright, alright, alright! Ronnie and Rocinante started this tour from the great state of Kansas, and in his stompin’ rock-n-roll salad days, Kansas was famous for springtime tornadoes. Well, times change, people change, and apparently weather patterns change as well. For instance, here in the Southeastern states, March and April 2025 subjected Ronnie and Rocinante to three, count ’em, three white knuckle evenings where one eye was on the online tornado trackers and the other on streaming movies. Two of those evenings featured sirens screaming, “take cover people, a funnel has been spotted!!” And so… with interrupted sleep comes memories of crazy dreams… here’s one for KENTUCKY.
Onward through the fog… the extent of Ronnie’s personal history withPENNSYLVANIAis from the dark days of the 1980s. A time of self-discovery, good times, and madness. Ronnie and a few other lost children formed a brief tribal bond, and one of those lost children was a native of Pennsylvania Amish Country. So… rather than dig up a bunch of boring travel-blog fare, let’s relive a version of this story. Without further adieu, the saga of “Dangerous Dan, the Sonesta Stud.” WARNING – nearly all of the following names and places have been changed in order to avoid future heartbreak or litigation. Consume at 2025’s level of truth-decay.
Ok… Ronnie wants to share another vivid dream. This time accompanied by a lone, mournful saxophone moaning a melody from some vaguely familiar smoky jazz club. The scene is a dusty phantom TV studio at night with the sound of a flickering fluorescent light, buzzing like a trapped fly. The dream conjured a vision so preposterous, yet so uniquely American in its blend of earnest naivety and jaded cynicism, that it deserves attention. To the mournful strains, a debate between two ladies, from drastically different eras, denizens of that diminutive state of DELAWARE. A place known for its accommodating incorporation laws and its haste in jumping on the Federal bandwagon.
MARYLAND and DC? The decision to plant the nation’s capital in the embrace of Maryland was a stroke of genius. It was an implicit recognition that the strength of this republic lies not in its ability to enforce a bland uniformity, but in its capacity to absorb and celebrate its manifold diversities. The future of this nation, if it is to have a future worth mentioning, will not be found in the sterile pages of Project 2025, but in the noisy, vibrant, and gloriously untidy reality of places like Maryland. Let the hollow sycophants preach their gospel of homogeneity; the rest of us, the free human beings in this republic, will continue to draw our strength from the rich and fertile soil of our diversity.
Now, if you want to understand the United States of America, and you’re in a hurry, you could do worse than look at CONNECTICUT. It’s a real grab bag of a place. It’s got all the shiny things and all the sharp, rusty things America keeps in its pockets. It’s a place of beautiful, brilliant minds, some of which are put to work making new and interesting ways to blow people to pieces. We imagine old Sam Clemens would have a thing or two to say about it. He’d look at the internet, where everyone has a megaphone and no one has an editor, and he’d probably light a cigar, pour himself a whiskey, and rack the billiards. He might have watched that movie, “Idiocracy”, and said, “They got it mostly right, but it should have been sadder.” He knew the score. He knew that human genius was a beautiful and dangerous thing, like a bottle of nitroglycerin. You could use it to help prevent a heart attack, or you could use it to blow up the world.
NEW JERSEY gets a bad rap. A real thumping from the wits over in New York, the titans of 30 Rock, who probably only ever see the bits that look like the inside of a vacuum cleaner bag… all that industry flanking the Jersey Turnpike. “Garden State,” they call it. And you drive past refineries that look like metallic dinosaurs coughing up their last, and you wonder about the gardener. Blue state. Thoroughly blue. But even in the bluest of states, you’ll find some folks trying to repaint the town red. Some genius, some absolute card-carrying comedian without an audience, tried to change the name of little Clinton to “Reagan”. Reagan, New Jersey. You can’t make this stuff up. The universe just hands it to you on a slightly greasy, very confusing platter. Who needs The Onion when you’ve got municipal politics?
Now when Ronnie thinks of VERMONT, his brain immediately goes to Senator Bernie Sanders. And why not? The man, with his rumpled suits and his waving arms, and the voice of gravel mixed with moral indignation, is practically a walking, talking, quintessentially American ideal. He’s the guy who reminds you of what Grandma told you about doing the right thing, even if nobody else is. He’s a fearless avatar, this Sanders, straight outta Vermont. And Vermont, well, it’s got this weird, similar history: secular, sure, but with a moral compass that points due north; revolutionary, absolutely, but grounded in a kind of unvarnished pragmatism that’d make a brick wall seem flighty.
Then after some missteps in Pennsylvania and Delaware, NEW YORK! Everybody’s got a New York story, right? A slab of concrete crammed with eight million other schmucks all trying to get somewhere faster than the next guy! And the subway? A moving petri-dish filled to the rim with way too much humanity and the distinct aroma of “what the hell is that?” So, hunkered down in Horseheads, a name that just rolls off the tongue and lands in a pile of “what the hell”, a place with a Stephen King-esque backstory that just puts the weird right out there on the welcome sign, we compose our New York yawp.
And what’s this? These postage stamp states… NEW HAMPSHIRE and RHODE ISLAND. On New Hampshire’s Mount Washington, they call it… the “World’s Worst Weather.” Hurricane-force winds every third day. Through the years, more than a hundred visitors underestimated that fury, and now they cant. Little dwarf trees, all matted and gnarled, like angry bonsai. So it goes. And the Old Man of the Mountain, a face carved by nature itself, watched over Franconia Notch for ages. Then, one day in May 2003, poof! Gone. Just like that. And Ronnie thought Kansas had windy days. And Rhode Island? A place so steeped in its own absurd contradictions that its best legacy is a perpetual punchline delivered by a cartoon with a metric ton of ironic jokes! Peter Griffin himself, lampooning the place he inhabits! A place called Providence that was founded by a human who was probably too goddamn weird for the Puritans! “Rogue’s Island,” they called it! More like Rage Island!
Then Tewksbury, MASSACHUSETTS? Ronnie’s eyebrows shot up like a rocket. What the Sam Hell? Serendipity, it seems, often arrived in the guise of a geographical screw-up. For lo and behold, a stone’s throw from their new, accidental roost, stood the Tewksbury Public Library, and just beyond its brick façade, a short, almost ominous stroll away, loomed the Tewksbury State Hospital, its Gothic spires reaching for the heavens like skeletal fingers, steeped in a history as thick and dark as molasses. SERENDIPITY NOW! A drumroll, please, for the universe’s peculiar sense of humor. Like the Pilgrims, their faces grim with conviction, seeking a place to worship God without all the fuss and bother of the Old World. They clambered off their creaking wooden ark, the Mayflower, and promptly set up shop in Plymouth, a desolate spit of land that would forever be etched in the annals of American myth. A mere decade later, in 1630, another wave, an even more earnest phalanx of Puritans, arrived, their heads buzzing with the grand, almost hubristic idea of building an “ideal” religious society, a shining city upon a hill. They called their settlement the Massachusetts Bay Colony, a name that would eventually be swallowed by the booming metropolis we now call Boston.
And then there’s MAINE! The final stickpin on this quixotic tour! The land of sprawling nothingness and the occasional Dunkin’! Bangor? A bust! A Gordian knot of SUVs and pickup trucks! Ronnie felt like a single, tangled strand of dental floss in a Sasquatch’s beard! Downtown felt less like a literary pilgrimage and more like the prelude to a particularly grim Edgar Allan Poe story! The meander back south was a blur of paranoia and close calls, a truly unsettling, unforgettable vibe of a state where you “can’t get there from here!”
Better bring a compassAnd so… it begins…DC Congressional Reading Room
And so, alas, the road calls, that siren song of adventure echoing in his ears! that siren song of adventure echoing in his ears! Ronnie’s homing pigeon instinct has them headed back to Kanorado. A break for tending personal business! After that, it’s the final leg, the grand pilgrimage back to the River of Grass! The salt air and the gentle lapping of the waves will serve as the backdrop for the main event, the book, the reason for this grand odyssey! Working title? One Year on the Road: Searching for the Fibrillating Heart of our Divided Nation! A grand ambition, indeed.
Stay Tuned… much more to come.
Onward through the fog… Rohlfie
This land is your land… This land is my land… From California… To the New York Island… From the Redwood forest… To the gulf stream water… This land is here for you and me!
Arkansas, the Natural State, is a curious juxtaposition of backwoods charm and surprising sophistication. It’s a place where towering pines meet sprawling Walmart parking lots, and where the echoes of Johnny Cash’s mournful baritone mingle with the twang of a bluegrass dobro.
Here are a few impressions as we ease into Hot Springs or Busk, Phase IV:
THE GOOD: Arkansas is home to several natural hot springs, many of which are open to the public. The most famous is Hot Springs National Park, which features 47 naturally occurring springs. Other notables include those found in the Ouachita Mountains and the Ozarks. Arkansas has a rich cultural history as well, with several famous landmarks. These include the boyhood home of Johnny Cash in Kingsland, the birthplace of Al Green in Forest City, and Billy Bob Thornton, born right there in Hot Springs.
Eastman HotelHot Springs, AK
For outdoor enthusiasts, Arkansas features mountains, forests, lakes, and rivers. The Ozark Mountains and the Ouachita Mountains are particularly popular for hiking, camping, and fishing. The Buffalo National River is widely regarded as the state’s best natural sightseeing location. This scenic river is renowned for kayaking, canoeing, fishing, and hiking.
As for the cost of living. Arkansas is generally lower than the national average, making it attractive for families and retirees, residents are known for their warm and welcoming hospitality. A big plus is the rich culinary tradition, with dishes like barbecue, catfish, and fried pies. Arkansas cuisine is a hearty affair that will satisfy even the most discerning palate. And don’t forget the sweet tea, a beverage so beloved by Arkansans that it’s practically a religion.
Arkansans are a hearty breed, known for their hospitality and their dry wit. They’ll welcome you with open arms, but don’t be surprised if they also give you a sideways glance and a knowing smirk. It’s a state where folksy wisdom and modern cynicism coexist.
THE BAD: Arkansas has one of the lowest education attainment rates in the country, access to quality healthcare can be limited in some parts of the state, and the state’s infrastructure, particularly its roads and bridges, is in need of improvement. The state is a patchwork quilt of contradictions. It’s home to the serene beauty of the Ozarks and the eerie allure of Hot Springs National Park, a place where time seems to slow down and the earth itself steams. Yet, it’s also a place where poverty and opportunity often clash, a place where the past clings to the present. While the state’s natural beauty is undeniable, its infrastructure can be a bit of a rollercoaster ride. The roads, especially in the rural areas, can be as winding and unpredictable as a post-pandemic general election. But hey, that’s part of the charm, right?
THE UGLY: While Ronnie & Rocinante noted a fairly easy trek through the urban centers of Little Rock and North Little Rock, there are plenty of snags due to ongoing road construction. That said, less populated areas of the state can suffer from limited resources to health care, education, and infrastructure. This reminds us of a song found in the Harry Smith collection of American folk music. A ditty called “My Name is John Johanna” sometimes known as “The State of Arkansas”. The song tells the story of an unfortunate young man who finds himself appalled at the living and working conditions in Arkansas. The state of Arkansas was admitted to the Union in 1836. This song draws on fairly typical frontier stereotypes, Arkansas being a largely untamed wilderness during the mid-19th century.
My name is John Johanna, i came from Buffalo town. For nine long years i’ve traveled this wide wide world around. Through ups and downs and miseries and some good days i saw, But i never knew what misery was ’til i went to Arkansas.
To be fair, conditions in Arkansas are significantly improved since the 19th Century. Ronnie has family from the state and they are doing quite well. But, as earlier indicated, there are still areas for improvement. Even though many in the urban centers are enjoying upper-middle class to straight up opulent conditions for modest prices as compared to states like California, New York, or Washington State.
So, if you’re looking for a place where the ordinary meets the extraordinary, where the past and the present collide, then Arkansas might just be the place for you… Its natural beauty, affordable living, and friendly people make it an attractive place to live, work, and visit. However, the state also faces challenges in areas like education, healthcare, and infrastructure.
Onward through the fog… RH
You got your good days… You have your bad days… In Arkansas… You found your getaway… From the bubblin’ hot springs… To winding country roads… Life here is ah la Natural.
Now, Ronnie, his conception of California mostly the product of pop culture and literature, had dreamed of staking a claim in the LA music scene back in his salad days. But those dreams evaporated in a mix of spandex, big hair, and MTV-dominated schlock. He washed out in the Denver cover-band scene, selling out for a couple hundred bucks a week. His California Dream ended on New Year’s Eve, 1987.
Fast forward to 2024. The Hot Springs or Busk tour begins its California leg in Eureka, a beach town crawling with former pirates, giving us the heebie-jeebies. The local strip-mall reeked of desperation, beach sand coating every surface like a bad habit. We pushed on to Redding, a digital nomad-friendly place with a familiar feel. Sorta like Garden City Kansas, with palm trees.
Speaking of familiar places, we ventured south to Steinbeck Country… Salinas. Now, Ronnie’s used to half-empty malls, but this one was a different story. Thousands of people, a rainbow of cultures, all having a grand time. It was oddly refreshing, being on the other side of the majority.
And yes, California is home to many small to medium-sized colleges, as well as several famous literary landmarks associated with renowned authors. Jack London State Historic Park, The Henry Miller Library, a museum dedicated to the works of that prominent figure of the Beat Generation. And John Steinbeck National Historic Site, the birthplace and childhood home of that Nobel Prize-winner.
Cannery Row CharactersCannery RowMonterey Historic DistrictView from Doc’s LabWaiting for breakfastBringing in the haul
Steinbeck Country… Cannery Row… Salinas… Monterey… after leaving Eureka (scared the hell outta Rocinante), then we hoofed it to Redding (cos they had a PF), then to Salinas… hung here for a while before making our way to the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) all the way to the LA archipelago (Moorpark, specifically).
Anyway… California isn’t just super-big, it’s also quite diverse in landscape: including a wide range of natural environments, from the Pacific coast to the Sierra Nevada mountains. It offers, at least in the coastal regions, fairly consistent Mild days with most of the state enjoying a Mediterranean climate, warm dry summers and mild, wet winters.
California, as anyone paying attention to national affairs knows, has a thriving economy, with major industries in technology, entertainment, agriculture, and tourism. But all those roads and bridges in sasquatch-infested double-canopy jungles require a somewhat higher bracket of fuel tax… (this is an extreme understatement).
Oy… thanks a lot, Obama
California also has its share of publicly accessible natural hot springs, from Slates Hot Springs near Big Sur to Travertine Hot Springs in the Mono County area. And, in Ronnie’s estimation, the best feature of all is California’s cultural diversity. California is a delicious mix of cultures, with a rich tapestry of ethnicities and traditions… this is our true national character… a glorious stew of the world’s diverse personalities.
“What we know is a drop… What we don’t know is the ocean.” ~ Isaac Newton
I tried… i really tried. Or maybe i’m adjusting to life’s inevitable curveballs scrambling the perfect symmetry of my best laid plan. You know, the one where i, knight-errant in a rolling studio apartment christened Rocinante, traversing the 48 contiguous states. The noble quest? To get my arms around the “fibrillating heart of our divided nation“. To get these insights from whomever in these sleepy college towns might be willing to spend five minutes with a weirdo packing a guitar and a head full of questions.
But fate, that fickle wench, had other plans. First, it was the librarians. Pale, overworked automatons shuffling through Dewey decimals, with nary a moment to spare for philosophical pontificating on state mottos. Was it time constraints, or a gut-wrenching fear of my “political agenda”? And don’t get me started on the chilling possibility that the modern anti-intellectualism plague has seeped its tendrils into the heartland’s libraries! The horror! I quickly concluded my approach was to blame. I mean, c’mon, what the hell is this all about?
Then came the body blows: Rocinante’s innards failing like a politician’s promise, and a Utah road pebble punching a hole in our windshield. The Hot Springs or Busk mission – a symphony of soaking in geothermal glory and serenading the masses for petty cash – lay in tatters. Sure, the Dakotas and Wyoming soothed my travel-weary soul with their natural mineral baths, but that dream’s on hold till the autumn chill sets in. And busking? That one never even sprouted wings. Turns out, maintaining personal hygiene on the road, wrestling with writer’s block, acquiring provisions, and figuring out where to sleep takes up most of a day.
But here’s the kicker, loopers. The world’s gone batty, and burying my head in the sand just ain’t gonna cut it anymore. “Project 2025” leaked like a sieve, painting a dystopian portrait of a second Trumpian reign that’d make Orwell blush. And don’t even get me started on the assassination attempt – the twisted pandora’s box exposing an unholy alliance of theocratic nutjobs, techie snake-oil salesmen, and white-bread racists all marching in lockstep toward MAGA-land.
This, loopers, is where Rocinante and i draw a line in the sand. It’s time to stand up, or at least yell obscenities at the oncoming storm, in defense of the freaking democratic republic our forefathers sweat blood to build. This ain’t some pre-packaged travelogue anymore, folks. This is a gonzo odyssey hurtling towards a cliffhanger ending November, 2024, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.
Let me establish some bona fides, loopers. It was 1993, the Jurassic period of the internet, when i, a late-blooming recently reformed rock-n-roll wannabe made his way to the meticulously landscaped limestone campus of Fort Hays State University. At this frontier outpost, i stumbled upon a great tech-fueled human awakening. The era, mind you, when dial-up modems whined their mating calls, and the internet itself resided in a fluorescent-lit dungeon called the “computing center” – a place that would make a Kafka setting look like some cheerful dentist’s waiting room.
There, on a terminal that resembled a torture device from a B-movie, i logged onto a primordial internet, a MUD (multi-user dungeon) teeming with virtual spelunkers from across the globe. It was like falling into a rabbit hole populated by Aussies, Brits, and basement-dwelling samurai – a world where geography dissolved like a bad acid trip.
Intrigued (and maybe a little scared), i embarked on a quest to understand this beast. I traded my dog-eared textbooks for a master’s degree in the field of “communication studies,” focusing on the particular learning styles of these early internet adopters. As the web blossomed (or maybe more accurately, sprouted like a particularly virulent fungus), so did my career. I landed in academia, a Don Quixote tilting at windmills of ignorance, determined to share this newfound curiosity.
Ah, but this paradise wasn’t built for everyone. Back then, computing power was the exclusive domain of pocket-protected engineers and those with the social graces of an abacus. The average digital apprentice, like myself, had two options: learn the arcane language of coding, a feat akin to deciphering ancient Sumerian, or grovel before the high priests of computer science. And for what reward? The dubious honor of navigating a buggy wasteland of productivity tools resembling a drunken Rube Goldberg contraption. The “graphical user interface” revolution, if you can call it that, was just another layer of lipstick on this technological pig.
Before the internet, navigating the marketplace of ideas meant a pilgrimage to the library, that mausoleum of knowledge and arcanery. You either wrestled with the Dewey Decimal System, a logic puzzle designed by Satan himself, or relied on the benevolence of the librarians, those gatekeepers of the pulp-n-ink media. The contrast between the Dark Ages of ’78 and the digital supernova of 2024 is enough to make your head spin.
Now, we drown in a tsunami of technological pronouncements – quantum computing, designer DNA, the ever-present threat of Skynet. But fear not, loopers, for even as we stand on the precipice of a technological singularity, nearly half the population still believes the Earth is flat and six thousand years old. We are a nation of flickering attention spans, perpetually distracted by the digital fireflies flitting across our screens – a society of shuffling zombies, hypnotized by the glow of our handheld gods, and there will be a reckoning… oh yea.
Look, i’m no Luddite. Here i am, hunched over a keyboard in the merciful silence of the library, instead of downing near-beer and swapping healthcare stories at the Bingo Hall. The digital siren song is hard to resist. But where’s the master plan in all this? Who’s steering this chrome chariot hurtling towards who-knows-where? It feels like a rigged game, doesn’t it? The puppet masters, these billionaire Übermenschen, dangle their techno-baubles in front of us, content to keep the masses hypnotized. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s just economics, not some grand conspiracy. After all, we don’t wanna give spoiled, marginally-competent “self-made” trust-fund babies too much credit, right?
Anyway, we stand at a crossroads, teetering on the edge of a technological revolution. The chaos around us is a symptom of our collective unpreparedness. Let’s arm ourselves with knowledge, not just the latest gadgets. The future is ours to shape, but only if we wrest control from the digital puppeteers and use this power wisely. After all, wouldn’t you rather be the architect than another brick in the wall?
Either way, we’re in a heap of trouble. The gap between the haves and have-nots is wider than the Grand Canyon on a bad acid trip. We’re hurtling towards a technological future with all the grace of a drunken walrus on roller skates. What’s the answer? Jeezus! Who knows…? If i had the answers my dispatches wouldn’t live in an obscure blog no more discernable than a needle in the galaxy of obscurity. I’d be one of the puppet masters, right? There would be publicists, and media tours, and wardrobe people, personal trainers, financial advisors, domestic services staff, etc..
So, assuming my guess is as good as anyone with comparable bona fides, consider this: What if we were to pump our educational systems full of digital steroids, create a generation of media-savvy citizens who can think critically, not just parrot the latest pronouncements from Silicon Valley snake-oil salesmen? Also… maybe leave the religious dogma to Sunday schools.
Whatever we decide to do, it’s time to stop worshipping false idols (as seen in the 10 Commandments) and reclaim our rightful place as that shining pluralistic city on the hill. Let’s stop vilifying intelligence, but celebrate it. From there, maybe we really CAN … Make Humanity Great Again.
Ok… enough for now. Stay tuned for a reverse “red-pill” treatment… we’ll flip the whole “Cathedral” of the neo-liberal “deep-state” on it’s head. We’ll restate The Who’s pithy observation from their anthem, Won’t Get Fooled Again…
Greetings, loopers! We find ourselves in the state where the wind whispers secrets through endless fields of corn – Nebraska. A land where the motto, emblazoned on their flag with all the subtlety of a neon sign advertising a discount root canal, screams “Equality Before the Law!” Just like a drunken carnival barker promising a live unicorn.
Our intrepid reportorial team (R.H. and a belly full of cheesy blueberry grits) tracked down Carl Spicher, a librarian in Chadron with the patience of a saint and a reference desk powered by spread-spectrum WiFi. Turns out, Nebraska’s motto stemmed from a bygone era – the Civil War, to be precise – when they removed their “whites only” voting restrictions and welcomed newly emancipated African Americans. Now, emancipation long relegated to the dusty corners of the Dewy Decimal system… Nebraska these days spends more time extolling the virtues of “The Good Life” in their state ads than acknowledging their, shall we say, reluctant progressive past.
Hot Springs: Nebraska’s geothermal spas were recognized by Pawnee and Sioux tribes who used them for healing ceremonies and relaxation. European settlers in the 19th century recognized their therapeutic potential setting up various popular resorts. Victoria Springs State Recreation Area (established in 1925) operates to this day.
Arts: High? More like high school cafeteria food. Low? Now we’re talkin’! Dive bars with murals that would make a sailor blush and performance art that’ll leave you wondering if you accidentally stumbled into a psych ward… glorious!
Colleges: You got your pick of public and private institutions, churning out everything from future astronauts to rodeo champions (because Nebraska, baby!).
Literary Landmarks: Slim pickings here, folks. Unless you consider endless cornfields a metaphor for the crushing emptiness of existence, which some might argue is a valid point.
The Nebraskan Character: A Portrait in Contradictions: – The Good: Friendly, fiercely independent, and with a work ethic that could shame a pack mule. They’ll give you the shirt off their backs, as long as you don’t mess with their corn or their college football team. – The Bad: Stubborn as a Missouri mule (apologies to Missouri), suspicious of outsiders, and with a penchant for casserole concoctions that would make a health inspector weep.
Famous Figures: Not exactly a who’s who of Hollywood royalty. But you got Marlon Brando, who chilled in Omaha for a bit, and Johnny Carson, the gold standard for late night TV.
Lifestyle: Visitors? Brace yourself for wide-open spaces, small-town charm (read: everyone knows your business), and enough fried food to clog your arteries faster than you can say “Go Big Red!” Nebraskans themselves? They live the simple life, content with their land, their families, and their Huskers.
Vox Populi: As for that whole “Equality Before the Law” shtick? Let’s just say the opinions range from polite chuckles to outright guffaws. But hey, at least they have an aspirational motto, right?
It’s a land of contradictions, cornfields, and a healthy dose of absurdity. So come on down, y’all! Just don’t expect a Pulitzer Prize-winning literary scene or a red carpet welcome. But if you’re looking for authenticity, a soak in a hot spring, and a chance to experience Americana, uncut and unfiltered, then Nebraska might just surprise the hell out of you.
So… here we go… apologies to Woody Guthrie:
Onward through the fog… R.H.
In the dive bars… And Nebraska murals… Creative spirit… Leans toward surreal… But in the depth of… Our nation’s history… These folks made room… For the newly free.
Picture this, America: some aging fool and his four-wheeled testament to stubbornness, baptized “Rocinante” for that same delusional optimism. Me? I’m trading academe for the wide-open spaces, tilting at the broadcast towers of mainstream media following a loose spine of favorable climates and college towns across these 48 states.
You see, I’ve got this itch. This notion that the true pulse of America isn’t in corporate board rooms or the marbled halls of power, but in the sticky floors of dive bars, the sun-baked town squares, and the yawning lecture halls of universities. So, Rocinante and i, we’re on a quest.
First things first, a man can’t get to the heart of the American Dream on an empty stomach. In each town, the routine is honed with a survivalist’s focus: hygiene out of the way (gyms, truck stops, even the occasional river bath for that true hobo chic), laundry refreshed, and Rocinante’s belly restocked with fuel and provisions. Local libraries become my sanctum – free internet, musty books, a whiff of intellectualism to ward off the creeping road madness.
Then, the hunt begins. I stalk state facts like a cornered possum, armed with Wikipedia and an unhealthy obsession with the bizarre and overlooked. Then it’s into the fray! I corner unsuspecting locals, less like an intrepid reporter and more like a stray dog sniffing out dinner.
“What’s your state motto?” I’ll ask, eyes gleaming with the zeal of a half-crazed Jeremiah. Then the real fun – listening as they fumble, praise, or outright despise those hallowed words. This, loopers, is raw, unfiltered Americana that no cable pundit can manufacture. It gets distilled into my loopy travel-blog dispatches over whatever questionable Wi-Fi i can scrounge.
College campuses – they’re the petri dishes of society, bubbling with idealism, hormones, and all that youthful angst. If there’s unrest brewing, Ronnie Hays has a front-row seat. Not to incite riots, but to chronicle the messy, beautiful chaos of young minds at war with a world that doesn’t seem to give two spits.
Now, this land, it sings to me. Woody Guthrie’s ghost haunts my guitar case. In each state, i’ll pen my own crooked verse of “This Land is Your Land,” a wind-whipped, low-fi ode to the cracked highways and resilient souls i find. Welcome signs become my stage, YouTube my tin-can amplifier.
Planning ain’t my strong suit. Half the joy is in the detours. But hot springs? Oh, sweet geothermal bliss. i’ll soak these old bones till they’re soft as a boiled noodle, conjuring up the ghosts of grizzled prospectors and bathing beauties while i fend off mosquitoes.
To fund this glorious mess, a little busking. My luting skills ain’t Carnegie Hall material, but it’ll buy a burger, or at least a sympathetic chuckle from passersby.
And so, it begins. A year under the vast American sky, a tin can Don Quixote fueled by French roast and stubborn hope. Expect tales of barroom philosophers, off-grid eccentrics, and everyday folks grappling with the beautiful, broken heart of this country. Expect a whole lotta nonsense, a dash of truth, and maybe, just maybe, a sliver of understanding about this glorious, maddening, never-ending experiment called America.
Loopcircus 